


The Nine Thousand Vowels between L and S

by Leela



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Edgeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can only babble, random words like "fuck" and "yes" and something that might be "please" in a world where it has nine thousand vowels between the l and the s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nine Thousand Vowels between L and S

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aislinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aislinn/gifts).



> For @aislinntlc. Thank you for everything, and hope you enjoy this little birthday present. Many thanks to @eeyore9990 for the preread.

Stiles is sprawled out on a huge couch underneath the sunniest window in the house. His hair is almost dry from the shower he took as soon as he got home from that boring ass conference, and he's dressed in baggy shorts and nothing else just because he can. Because he's no longer sharing a too small hotel room with Greenberg, who should never have been allowed to join the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department as far as Stiles is concerned.

But he's home and Derek isn't. So he's dozing in the sun and daydreaming of a rarely seen smile that reveals just a hint of fang and glowing blue eyes with a faint ring of red around the pupils.

A hand skims up Stiles' right leg, gentle and teasing. He stretches his legs apart, encouraging it to rise higher, to get closer to what he really wants. The touch stays too soft, so Stiles moves into it. His left foot slips off the edge of the couch, but a thumb rubs against the crease of his thigh. He hums in appreciation, still half-caught in a dream. He doesn't want to wake up, to know if it's real or not, but a scrape of blunt human fingernails sends a shiver through him and drags him up to the surface. 

He blinks, finds himself looking down into Derek's eyes, and licks his lips. 

It was supposed to be sexy. Instead, it turns into a half-yawn that he smothers with one hand. 

"I can come back," Derek offers. "Let you get your beauty sleep."

"No!"

The word jolts Stiles most of the rest of the way awake, and he curls his left leg around Derek in a half-assed attempt to hold him there.

"It's not like I actually need beauty sleep, because... come on."

When Derek doesn't get the hint and starts to pull away — Stiles' leg not doing a damn thing to stop him — Stiles adds, "I mean don't leave. Don't stop. Don't you _dare_ or I'll..."

Derek raises an eyebrow.

"I'll _something_. You know I will. I always do. So get your hand back down there, damn it."

Of course Derek doesn't. He lowers his head and noses along the side of Stiles' cock, stopping and breathing a little harder near the head where Stiles' shorts are damp. The sound that comes out of him is low and possessive, and totally _ruinous_.

"God, Derek." 

"Stiles." Derek breathes over Stiles' cock, sending sparks of arousal chasing through him. 

"Yes," Stiles says, and it's not really a question even though his voice breaks on the last syllable. Because it's totally not a one-syllable word, not when Derek is teasing him through his shorts by dragging his lips up and down Stiles' cock. 

With a roll of his hips, Stiles gains a brief moment of _oh fuck, yes_ before Derek places a hand on each of Stiles' hips and holds him down. He gives Stiles that alpha glare, the one that has always left Stiles torn between wanting to fight back, to fall to his knees in submission, to climb Derek like a...

Derek sucks on the damp spot, over the head of Stiles' cock, and Stiles completely loses his train of thought in a white-hot rush of want.

When he comes down from it, he says, "Do that again," because he's always been too smart for his own good. "Give me that look again. You know the one. C'mon. Give it to me."

But Derek ignores him and starts peeling Stiles' shorts and underwear off. "I've been thinking about you," he says. "Every day for a week. Every time you texted me from Seattle."

"Good thoughts, right? Because they can't be anything else if they're about me." The last word rises into a squeak as Derek sucks up a mark in the crease of Stiles' thigh. 

"Bad thoughts. Deep dark thoughts about what I was going to do to you when I got home. How I was going to see you..."

With delicate hooking movements of sharp claws that barely touch Stiles' skin, Derek shreds Stiles's shorts and underwear, and tosses the ragged pieces away.

"Taste you..." 

Derek touches the tip of his tongue at the base of Stiles' cock: hot, wet, and so not long enough. 

"Smell you..." 

He snuffles Stiles' balls, his warm breath stirring the curly hairs, and Stiles has to close his eyes and bite his tongue so as not to whimper.

And then Derek stops. Just stops. Doesn't say or do anything else.

"Dude, you were doing something."

"Something, huh?" 

Derek sounds amused and that's so very wrong that Stiles arches his back and stretches, making sure to tilt his head in just the right way to show off his neck. He holds the pose for one, two, three... and Derek breaks.

"You're going to pay for that," Derek says in that way which totally means he wants Stiles. 

"Oh yeah?" Stiles raises his right leg and runs it up Derek's arm to rest it on Derek's shoulder, then he lets his knee fall open. 

"Yeah."

With that, Derek slides down and pushes Stiles further up the couch. He mouths a track of light biting sucking marks up Stiles' left leg, the kind that leaves Stiles trembling deep inside and reaching up over his head to clutch at the cushioned arm.

"Too many people." There's a kind of desperation in the way Derek nuzzles the inside of Stiles' thigh, how his stubble barely prickles the sensitive skin.

"Hard to avoid in hotels, shuttle buses, airports, and airplanes," Stiles says. "But I took a long shower. Turned myself into a wrinkly prune for you."

Derek glares at him again, which doesn't make any sense. Stiles isn't about to complain though, because he knows those sounds: the flip of a cap and the squish of lube between fingers. His response to them is almost Pavlovian, making him want anything, everything, _Derek_. 

A warm finger coated in cool, slick lube presses against Stiles' hole, and he feels it all the way to his cock. It's nothing more than a tease that has him twisting his hips in search of more. 

"Oh my god," Stiles grumbles, because really. "You're going to kill me."

"That wouldn't be fun for very long."

Stiles is going to object, he is, but Derek's finger slips inside him. It stretches him, with the kind of burn that steals every thought from him and makes him reach for his cock.

Only to have his hand caught by Derek's and held down against the couch. 

"No touching," Derek says.

He moves his finger, thrusting it in and out, and Stiles can't help but buck his hips up to pull it in deeper. His cock bounces with each movement, hitting his stomach, driving him closer and closer to coming. Stiles tenses. His balls draw up. Everything inside him seems to narrow down to his cock, to the pressure that's building.

Then Derek pulls out his finger, and Stiles falls back from the edge.

"What? No. No stopping," Stiles says. "Why are you stopping?" You can't..."

"Yes, I can." 

Derek presses two fingers inside him, stretching him further, filling him, and Stiles hisses a triumphant, "Yes."

When Derek rotates his fingers, crooks them, and rubs them over Stiles' prostate, desperation opens up an ache inside Stiles, and he makes an incoherent noise of encouragement.

Every one of Derek's movements, the in and out, the rub and drag, sends Stiles higher. He digs his fingers into the couch, into the arm over his head, holds on, resisting the urge to touch his cock, to tug and squeeze.

And Derek pulls out his fingers. He brushes a kiss so gentle that it's almost painful against the inside of Stiles' knee.

Frustration drives Stiles to complain, "God, Derek, you're such an asshole."

Derek just smiles at him, a tight curve of lips and gleam of white teeth that turns Stiles on in ways he's never been able to understand. And then he thrusts three fingers into Stiles.

"Forget that. Not an asshole. Just... yes, okay. Yes and yes and yes... oh my god, Derek, come on."

He fucks them into Stiles, faster and faster, and Stiles rises to meet every stroke, taking his fingers as deep as he can. He rolls his hips, wanting to catch each twist of bony knuckles, every bump against his prostate.

Over and over, sometimes hard, sometimes soft, and always with that hungry look on Derek's face, with Derek's need feeding into Stiles, racing through him like a flash fire, until Stiles can barely talk. He can only babble, random words like "fuck" and "yes" and something that might be "please" in a world where it has nine thousand vowels between the l and the s. 

Even those words are cut off when Derek growls, deep and low, and turns his head to bite into Stiles' inner thigh, sending a shockwave through him, and Stiles pulses his release, striping himself, Derek, and the couch with his come.

Derek grins at him, sharp and fierce, and licks his way up Stiles, cleaning him. 

Stiles moans with the aftershocks, the sensations that are almost too much, and he curls into Derek, clings to him and lets Derek hold him tight. He smiles as Derek nuzzles his neck and breathes out. It's good to be home.


End file.
